


Impatience

by LadyLattice



Category: Naruto
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut, i'm not even sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-28
Updated: 2016-04-28
Packaged: 2018-06-05 03:10:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6686782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyLattice/pseuds/LadyLattice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Though Madara has just returned to the village after a long mission that has left him worn and weary, Hashirama is far too eager to soothe his Uchiha's woes in the most carnal way he can manage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Impatience

**Author's Note:**

  * For [roanspaniel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/roanspaniel/gifts).



> Okay, so this is some quick, shameless HashiMada smut with absolutely no plot, because I realized that even though I've written a fair amount of HashiMada, I've never actually written smut for these two. Well here ya go. For Leela and Marta <3
> 
> Naruto and associated themes are property of Masashi Kishimoto, to whom all rights to the franchise belong.

 

“Hashirama,” Madara sighed against needy lips, allowing his head to lull back lazily when even teeth grazed a bit too forcefully along his jawline. “Hashirama, wait.”

The Hokage groaned as he rutted his hips into his lover’s open palm. “I can’t. I missed you while you were on your mission, Madara.”

“I said to wait, damn you!” he bit out in reply, slapping a gloved hand directly into the Senju’s face and shoving him roughly away with an irritated huff. “You oversexed moron, I _literally_ just walked in the door! Can’t you keep yourself from coming at the sight of me until I manage to get out of my armor? Besides, I’m filthy.”

Hashirama pouted deeply for a moment before raising his gaze to meet the inky depths of Madara’s weary eyes, Sharingan long ago discarded in the presence of current company and the comfort of home. There was a brief, devious quirking of tanned lips that had the shorter shinobi narrowing his glare in suspicion, but did little to protest when deft fingers worked at the straps of his armor, the heavy garb clattering to the floor in a metallic puddle of red. His shoulders ached where fresh leather had planted its mark in pale flesh, and he sighed in relief as Hashirama rid him of his shirt, kneading insistent kisses into his aggravated skin. “You’re perfect,” the Senju practically moaned as their bodies moved closer, desperate for contact. “I want you just as you are. So beautiful.”

“And I want you to let me take a bath.”

“No.”

“No?”

“You heard me the first time, Madara,” the Hokage ordered in a sultry tone that demanded compliance, leaving fluttering kisses along gloved fingers before finally taking the offending cloth between his teeth to pull it away from the slender hands he so dearly adored. “I’m not in the mood for repeating myself. Nor for your selfishness.”

Nipping bitterly at the lips that sealed themselves against his, Madara snorted but accepted the tongue that danced along his own, pleased with the familiar sweetness of kisses. Hashirama tasted like home – he had since the first time their lips had met – and the Uchiha knew that nothing could replace that sensation, no matter how fiercely he wished otherwise. “Am I truly the selfish one here? I’m tired after a long mission and all you want is to fuck me into the floor… isn’t that right, Hashirama?” he questioned, irritation fading into amusement that sought to battle away his budding arousal, though he still drug his lips beneath the taller man’s ear as he spoke, savoring the tremble the action inspired. “Even though I’m sweaty and have another man’s blood under my fingernails?”

Hashirama growled and stole another aggressive kiss, driving his lover’s back forcefully against the wall and sighing when he tasted his own blood like iron on his tongue, Madara’s teeth latching unapologetically onto his lower lip. It was a mere flash of searing agony that puddled between his thighs, delectable as the pain of his lungs aching for air, and the Senju drew in a shaking breath, hands mapping the ridges of the shorter shinobi’s body like a cartographer. He had long since committed each scar and ripple of hard-earned muscle to memory, brutally aware of each mark that he had personally etched into that pale flesh during so many years of war. And though now Madara wore them all like badges of honor, Hashirama’s heart still ached at the sight of those silvery-slick blemishes, wrought with memories too persistent to forget – memories of what they were, how they changed, a reluctant thirst for blood and the thrill of evenly-matched combat.

The Uchiha choked on a moan as his lover thrust a knee roughly between muscled thighs, grinding into his solid weight and the heat in his lap. “You win this time, Hashirama,” he conceded eagerly. “Fuck me.”

“I knew you’d come around.”

A husky laugh, a flash of a smug smile, and his lips were back on Madara’s, forceful and insistent as they shed their clothes like sinners in the heat of hell, movements clumsy with passion but flawlessly synched. In an instant the Hokage was on his knees, his lover’s arousal deep within the warmth of his mouth, and he smirked around the familiar bitterness when blunt nails buried themselves in his scalp, pleading, needy. The fury of Madara’s chakra pulsed beneath his skin, burning Hashirama’s tongue with its unbridled urgency, until the taller man had to pull away, gasping for breath.

“Your chakra, love,” he whispered gently, trailing tentative kisses up the planes of that lithe body and teeth grazing over sensitive scars. “I can’t keep you in my mouth if you don’t suppress your chakra a bit more. It’s too hot.”

Madara panted out a desperate curse and thrusted his hips into a waiting palm, the grasp large and calloused and delectably familiar as it roamed skillfully over his length. “Shit, I’m trying,” he hissed in reply, eyes clenched fiercely shut. “Just fuck me already!”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t, dammit! Just… do what I tell you to, for once in your life!”

A growl rumbled deep in Hashirama’s chest, monstrous and powerful like the shifting of mountains, broad hands coaxing pale thighs to close viciously around his waist as he thrust into his lover with a low moan, fighting the resistance of the smaller man’s body. He could feel the skin on his shoulder break beneath the force of Madara’s teeth against the taut muscle, the dampness of pained breaths against his throat, weak kisses that silently urged him to move – to overwhelm the agony of want with ecstasy that only he could give. Still, the Senju stayed motionless for several long instants, struggling against the pleasant throbbing of his arousal as it was consumed by his Uchiha’s searing heat.

“Is your body alright?” Hashirama asked carefully, dragging sloppy kisses against his lover’s temple and down his cheek.

Strong arms wound tentatively around his shoulders in response, slender fingers burying themselves in long strands of earthen hair, and he jerked his hips with a languid sigh of desire, savoring Madara’s quiet gasp at the movement. They quickly settled into a familiar rhythm punctuated with sensual sighs and moans of pleasure, Hashirama’s hands healing each bruise and cut that the shorter man’s mission had provided as some morbid souvenir. The instant the wounds vanished beneath the soothing glow of pale chakra, he created new ones with a nip or a bite or a much too forceful grip; it would not do to have another man’s mark on this beautiful body that was his alone. Madara smirked at the rampant show of possessiveness, though he truly did not mind – these little brands of want were nothing in comparison to the way the Senju had seared himself into his soul, black and painful in his permanence.

“Hashirama,” he groaned pitifully as he neared completion, legs and shoulders trembling like stubborn autumn leaves, body growing taut as he came with a sigh a relief. The Hokage quickly followed suit, prompted by his lover’s slight convulsions of ecstasy, whispering gentle words of encouragement against a pale throat that dripped with the sweat of gratifying exertion.

“Stay awake a little longer, love. I know you’re tired,” he mumbled soothingly, gathering Madara’s battered form carefully in his arms and walking towards the bath, using a simple suiton technique to draw water into the basin. “Come on, now. Stay awake just a bit longer.”

“I’m awake,” the Uchiha assured weakly, dark eyes heavily lidded with release and exhaustion from his mission.

Hashirama chuckled skeptically, settling behind his lover in the water, disregarding the way it sloshed and spilled across the floor as he carefully washed and rinsed the sopping mess of Madara’s hair. He had long since grown accustomed to this quaint routine, lying together in the bath after returning from particularly brutal outings, simply basking in the presence of the other and silently casting gratitude to the gods above that they had returned safely home. Despite the sheer might and skill of his lover, the fact of their existence as shinobi had remained unchanged since their first meeting by the riverbank – someday one of them may not return alive. It seemed absurd, the mere possibility that the two most powerful men on the continent would fear for each other’s safety, but neither was so disillusioned by their own strength to believe themselves invincible. Still, he had never given much thought to a world without Madara; and as he held him close, sighing against a chiseled shoulder, Hashirama knew that he never could. It would be too shocking, too devastating. It would surely leave him irreparably shattered.

“I love you,” the Senju whispered mournfully into the quiet, though the shorter man had already dozed into a light sleep, his head resting comfortably against Hashirama’s shoulder. “I love you, Uchiha Madara.”


End file.
